There was nothing to ask the wind about the breeze.
I could get swept away or sweep the withered on the ground.
Cold as it feels, the ice
I could either hold it or melt it down.
Crackers around burning,
Bright up the sky or the heat below my feet
Skies shudder as windows shatter.
I either poke the water pebbles on the railing
Or I bring the blinds down.
A clench of the fist to lift me up
Or a deep dent on that punch bag.
Titillating glory born of words not I seek
Nor will the spat of foolish vengeance brace my meek.
Just a thread of shining love in the finesse of the glorious one
Is my elfin effort in this fanciful feat.
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